Old Poetry...

I think clearer,
In the muggy breeze,
The fading of blue in sky.
Do I call on the rain?
For truly it follows closely,
Behind my discontent.
I've concealed qualities,
Which I'll give no power,
By assigning names.
Names too often,
Repeated in brain,
But dare not speak
directly of.
If I am to become,
A trinket,
I'll be the brightest,
The most adored.
But, the melancholy...
How to end it?
These clouds, so near,
so often.
She calls the wind,
To see if it will remember her.
When she fails to thank it,
For soft embraces,
Will it still love her,
And blow her hair?